I had a party to go to this weekend, a fantastic and fabulous party that is given annually by two of my favorite people in the world and this year, they threw us an 80′s Prom.
“Yay!” thought my inner prom queen, “I can finally use that bridesmaid’s dress from Laura’s wedding again!”
A few days before the party, I realized that hey, maybe I should try it on, seeing as I hadn’t worn it for a year and a half and things change. Butts get bigger, workouts get missed, the holidays ahd just happened, etc. So I tried it on and praise be, that size 14 bridesmaid’s dress still fit. Hallelujah, etc. I packed it up and headed out to have a good time.
The dress worked well for the party, especially with the addition of fingerless lace gloves, giant hair, copious amounts of blue eyeshadown and a veritable pile of long, plasticy necklaces. And the party was nothing but a good time, surrounded by fun people and many glasses of champagne and a husband who gambled enough to win me a stuffed Smurf. But somewhere around the 5th hour of wearing the dress (which was described as one of my friends as “very complicated” when he helped zip me into it), the dress started trying to kill me.
The built in, long line bra contraption started poking me in the ribs. It rode up and made me itch. If I pulled it up, the stays jabbed a new bruise into an unmarked part of my rib cage; if I pulled down, the dress threatened to release my boobs in a small tsunami of unfettered flesh. In other words, the dress and I were having a disagreement, and the dres? Was totally winning.
I started joking about finding Mo’s suitcase and stealing some clothes from her, since I did not have anything in the car to change into. When I made the joke to her, she immediately offered to give me pajama pants and a tank top so I would survive without permanent scarring. As I was changing I told her I had forgotten how stabby the dress was, and that it was even stabbier since I’d put on probably 15 or so pounds (at least) since the last time I wore it.
“Is this a bad thing? Or a good thing?” Mo asked, since she knows about the weight loss surgery I had. “Or a neutral thing?”
I shrugged and said “It is what it is. I’m just glad I don’t have rickets!” And then we went back out and rejoined the party and had a very good night all around.
So yeah, I’ve gained back some of the weight I lost. And no, it’s not my favorite thing in the world to admit. That’s partly because I never hit the goal I wanted to hit in the first place and partly because admitting I’ve gained weight back (beyond my 5 pound “bounce back”, which I totally wrote off) feels like admitting I’m a failure. And that is pretty much stupid, because statistically, I am a weight loss surgery success. I lost 65% of my excess weight and have maintained that for 2 1/2 years. My cholesterol dropped like a stone, my blood pressure followed suit, my blood sugars are actually tending toward the low end, and oh my GOD, I can jog now! For extended periods of time even!
But I will admit that this weight gain has freaked me out. I was on the verge of a total downward spiral last month, until I was shopping and tried on some size 16 straight leg Levi’s (that’s a misses size 16, not a women’s size 16) and they fit perfectly. I’m still 6 sizes smaller than I was at my largest, and I’m still fitting into all the clothes in my closet, and I can still buy things without trying them on because I know they will fit. So I was able to step back and take a breath and tell myself “It is what it is.”
There is a change that needs to be made though, because even though my numbers are good and my fitness is decent and I’m active and working out and wearing the same size as I did 18 months ago, I am not feeling my best. I am not making nutritionally sound choices, I am not taking my vitamins on a regular basis, I am not drinking enough water or getting enough protein or avoiding sugar. And it’s making me feel bloaty and rundown and making my intestinal tract unpredictable and cranky. My brain doesn’t operate as well and I’m not as happy as I could be because my body is not getting what it needs. So while that number on the scale is what it is, it’s time to get honest with myself and do what I need to do to get back on track.
If only there was an easy way to do that. Guess all I can do is keep trying.
I took down all my Christmas decorations today. The sparkly lights and fake greenery and ornaments with their shmoopy stories are all boxed up and waiting to go back into storage for another year. I was sad to put it away, and not just because this means my vacation is really and truly over now.
I spent time with dear friends, lingering over dinner and playing silly games. I baked roughly 5 million cookies, meditating in my kitchen as butter and sugar and flour became little gifts for everyone I knew. I threw a stellar holiday party for my company, and was reminded again how lucky I am to be working with these people at this company in this industry. We invited our friends and family and coworkers into our home to watch football and eat cookies and tell Sophie how cute she is. I made my first turkey, and it turned out fabulous.
